Three Twisted Stories: Go Deep, Necessary Women, Remmy Rothstein Toes the Line

by Karin Slaughter

  It is inside this swamp that Applicant Remmy Rothstein lives with his mother and older brother. By most accounts, Rothstein’s family tree took root around the time of the Suwannee Canal3 boondoggle. Others say the line goes back much farther. Embellishments seem to be a way of life down here, so should we indeed have a Record Breaker, a more firmly oriented timeline will of course have to be established.

  Lastly, I understand the Science Division always has questions when World Records pertain to physical attributes or endurance, and I have therefore taken a sample of the tannin-stained waters of the Okefenokee (tannin is the highly acidic substance that renders the shallow waters sparkling clear). Though I am no scientist, one could surely form a hypothesis that these waters could have led to the development of an elongated tongue. I know research continues on Stephen Taylor’s4 environment, but should Rothstein truly break the record, more research into his background and early diet is definitely indicated. But I’m getting ahead of myself!

  The plan is to meet Rothstein at noon tomorrow.

  Until then!

  Mindy

  (attachment: PlantsAnimalsOkefenokee.doc)

  1 Excluding wars and accidents, mosquitoes have been responsible for 50% of all deaths since the Stone Age.

  2 In 1928, Elton was the oldest living man to find out that the Civil War had ended.

  3 The canal, meant to drain the swamp into the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean, was abandoned in the late nineteenth century.

  4 Taylor’s tongue measures 3.86″ from the tip of his tongue to his top lip.

  DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia

  SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Cajun Jew”

  DATE: August 13, 2012

  ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)

  WEATHER: 106 degrees with 100% humidity

  ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)

  Dear Robert:

  I’m really not certain what happened today, but I’ll try to describe it as best I can: Wooten, the helpful landlord of my B&B, gave me very good directions to Rothstein’s meeting point, and I found it easily enough after a few hours of wandering around in the swamp. Did I mention that the air conditioner in my rental truck is broken? Funny thing: the truck was fine on the way down, but after that kid took it for a joyride, it started blowing heat (and smelling, oddly, of boiled peanuts—a local delicacy). I took it to a mechanic (a nice lady who also owns the local restaurant) and was told that it would cost approximately three thousand dollars to repair.

  After a few terse phone calls with the car rental company (note to Travel: it might be best in the future to steer clear of Jimmyz’ Truck and Tractor Rental), it was made clear to me that no repairs were authorized (which I cannot argue with as, according to Jimmyz’ rental agreement, which I had ample time to peruse while on hold, they are not responsible for any peanut-related mechanical failures, up to and including air-conditioning). Of course, all this means to me is that I have been forced to drive around in the heat.

  And is it hot! I’m talking Al-’Aziziyah1 hot!

  But I can hear your voice reminding me that it’s about the potential Record Holder, not the Adjudicator, and certainly not about the fact that I have lost six pounds since yesterday (please tell Kaitlyn) and that no matter how hard I try to remain hydrated, I am well under my 0.28 gallons!2

  As I said at the top of the report, I set out first thing in the morning, when it was but a balmy 98 degrees, giving myself ample time to make the noon rendezvous with Mr. Rothstein. I brought with me all the tools of verification: two rulers, a measuring tape, video recorder, tape recorder, and camera. I also took the liberty of bringing the Record Holder Certificate signed by Paolo Pergini, our esteemed leader, in case Mr. Rothstein had, in fact, broken the World Record.

  As you know, per certification guidelines, Mr. Rothstein submitted via our website the proper paperwork as well as ample documentation of tongue length to be reviewed by our Board of Assessors in the New York office. Photos showed a metal ruler placed “tip to top” (tip of tongue to top lip) indicating Mr. Rothstein’s tongue measured 3.9″, a full 0.04″ past the original World Record. Between you and me, Robert, I was also hoping for a double record, as the photos showed what seemed to be an abnormally wide tongue, surely as wide if not wider than Sloot’s.3 I know as Adjudicators we’re not supposed to get involved with our Subjects, but I feel like your knowing the level of my excitement going into this Adjudication will give you a deeper understanding of what happened next.

  Thanks to Wooten’s directions (which gave me a lovely side trip into Florida), I pulled up to Rothstein’s dock at approximately 11:52 a.m. This dock was not a typical dock connected to a house, but rather a free-floating wooden structure onto which an airboat was moored. Obviously, one does not become an Adjudicator without a lust for adventure, but even I was a bit wary of this rusty contraption, which more closely resembled a cast-iron bathtub with a box fan strapped onto the back. And I do mean strapped on—we’re talking enough bungee cords to make Alberto Reginni4 nervous. Nevertheless, I strapped myself into one of the wooden chairs (with yet another bungee cord) and resigned myself to a ride deep into the swamplands.

  My guide was not Mr. Rothstein, but his older brother, who is named Buell Rabinowitz. It is not just the unshared surname that leads me to believe Mr. Rothstein and Mr. Rabinowitz were sired by different fathers. Though it belies polite company to mention these things in public, I feel I must be completely truthful as an Adjudicator and reveal the facts: I have never seen an albino African American Jew before (possible record to explore for the Assessors’ Office?).

  For the most part, Buell spoke in the flowery Victorian parlance of the Swampers (this owing to little outside influence of the changing vernacular), only occasionally dipping into Yiddish and what I will describe as a folksy, backwoods slang. He was dressed in tan pants that were too short for his lanky, long leg (did I mention he only has one leg?) and a shirt that was obviously fashioned from a sack of flour.

  Buell informed me that his people have lived in the swamp since July 5, 1742, when the ongoing War of Jenkins’ Ear5 forced them from Congregation Mickve Israel6 in Savannah. I asked him about the Cajun part of the family, to which he answered (I felt sarcastically), “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”7

  I asked him again about his brother. “Is Remmy …”

  “A colored or an albino?” he finished.

  “Well …,” I said, but of course that’s exactly what I’d been thinking.

  “Nope. Remmy his own kinda special.” He steered the boat away from a resting alligator, then navigated a slight turn through a forked cypress tree. “Do yaself a favor, gal. Don’t say nothin’ ’bout his har.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, but he changed the subject, instead regaling me with a story about his great-great-grandpappy, a rabbi who fought in the Civil War.

  This was to be a pattern with Buell, whom I found to be quite open about everything having to do with his past and family until I questioned him about his brother Remmy. On all topics Rothstein, Buell declined to answer, instead telling me that he had to be careful around this part of the swamp because “them alligators are meshugah.”

  Instead of focusing on Buell’s ice-blue eyes, or the word “FLOUR” emblazoned on his narrow back, I found myself staring at the stump of his leg, onto which a poorly wrought, wooden prosthetic had been fashioned. It wasn’t exactly a peg, because it had a kind of shoe at the bottom—a badminton racket, really—but I feel that “peg” is the best descriptor, as the racket was attached with duct tape. Buell explained to me that the soft ground of peat posed a problem for the peg (much like a high heel, I imagine—did I mention I’ve lost two pairs of shoes since I got here? Invoices attached). The racket seems to act as a snowshoe of sorts, and thanks to the duct tape, could be quickly removed in case he needs to run.

  Run from what? you might be thinking. If only I’d considered the same question. I can’t tell you how long
the airboat ride lasted. Frankly, the fumes from the gas engine seemed to be exhausting directly into my face. There was no muffler per se, just a length of metal pipe with a sock taped onto the end. Watching the sock flop across the water cast something like a hypnotic spell, and I’m ashamed to say that I found myself nodding off. I must admit that I haven’t been sleeping well at night. It was quite a relief knowing that Mr. Wooten would not be gently nudging me awake to offer me a backrub. (And come to think of it, I have the strange feeling that he was wearing a pair of my shoes last night, which is silly, because he’s a size ten at least and he’s told me on more than one occasion that red is not his color.)

  But back to the swamp:

  As I said, I’m not sure what time it was when I awoke, but we were deep into the swamp, large cypress trees weaving their fingers together in a canopy that blocked most of the light. I tried to look at my watch, but the LED had melted into a puddle that rolled around under the glass like pus in a blister.

  I’m sorry to cut this short, Robert, but Mr. Wooten just came out from under my bed. He forgot to tell me that there’s something else wrong with my car. I’ll go ahead and send this off now as it’s required by the Manual of Adjudicator Conduct on the Road (rev.), Rule #22, to present a daily log.

  More anon—

  Mindy

  (attachment: ShoeInvoice.pdf)

  1 Home of the highest shade temperature ever recorded, at 136° F, 58° C.

  2 The average person generates 0.28 gallons of urine a day.

  3 Jay Sloot’s tongue measures 3.1″ at its maximum width.

  4 Reginni is the record holder for most bungee cords (83) wrapped around his head.

  5 Started in 1731 when Spaniard captain Julio León Fandiño boarded the English Rebecca and cut off Captain Robert Jenkins’s ear with the behest to give the ear to the British House of Commons.

  6 Organized in 1733, Congregation Mickve Israel, in Savannah, Georgia, is thought to be the third-oldest still-functioning congregation in the United States.

  7 “Let the good times roll.”

  DISPATCH: Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia

  SUBJECT: Remmy Rothstein, “the Cajun Jew”

  DATE: August 14, 2012

  ATTEMPTED RECORD: Longest Tongue in the World (man)

  WEATHER: 104 degrees with 99% humidity

  ADJUDICATOR: Mindy Patel (badge #683290)

  Dear Robert:

  Sorry for the abrupt ending yesterday, but I know what a stickler you are for rules, and you know that I am doing my utmost to be the best Adjudicator I can. As you often say, when life gives you lemons, the good Adjudicator verifies a World Record for Most Lemons in a Twenty-Four-Hour Period!

  Regarding the car: I’m afraid it’s another peanut-related incident, so not covered under the rental car agreement warranty. It seems that the transmission (which I noticed was slipping a bit when I made that U-turn in Florida) is gone. How a peanut got into the pistons is beyond me, but as Mr. Wooten says, “Them’s what happens in the swamp.” Ah, what a character.

  In reviewing my report from yesterday, I have to agree with you that it took way too many personal detours. I apologize for this and promise to rectify the situation beginning now.

  Buell nudged me awake as the airboat slid up against another wooden dock. This one was attached to a piece of land, the ubiquitous peat, upon which stood a simple one-room shack. The wood was clapboard, browned with weather and age, or perhaps singed from the Honey Prairie Fire. There was a strange glass in all the windows—Coke-bottle green with a round center that bubbled out to the edges. Victorian, I imagine. The first person to come out of the front door (in fact the only door) was an old, stooped woman with quite a long beard (I know what you’re thinking, and no—Vivian Wheeler1 can rest easy). She kept her gnarled hands gripped together as she walked across the peat. I’m not sure if the ground was shaking or she was. She was quite old (though not Valentim2 old) and I had to strain to hear what she said, which was “Welcome, darlin’.”

  Robert, you know that as an Adjudicator, I take my work very seriously, but I cannot lie to you and say that I was completely prepared for this case. As I mentioned yesterday, I’d brought all the proper tools needed to measure and document Mr. Rothstein’s tongue, but it is with great shame that I admit I did not bring the one tool that would’ve been most useful in this situation, and that is a flashlight. This thought only occurred to me as I followed the woman into the shack. The green glass that I mentioned served to further filter the light, so that when I entered the room, I could barely make out my surroundings.

  As my eyes adjusted, I took in several things rather quickly. There was a small bedstead pushed into one corner, a quilt laid over a bare straw mattress. An otherwise clean fireplace was set with wood but, thankfully, there was no fire. Metal implements adorned the walls: pitchforks and axes serving as objets d’art. Strangely, there was a large—I would say at least 60″—plasma-screen television taking up one wall. The old woman patted the set as if it were a familiar, telling me, “A gift from Remmy.”

  And that is when I realized the other thing missing from the room: Mr. Rothstein.

  “Is he here?” I asked.

  “Give ’im time,” she told me, pulling out a wooden stool I’d not noticed before. It was a three-legged stool, the fourth leg being currently used by Buell Rabinowitz, who at that moment clomped into the shack. He carried the badminton racket at his side, a piece of duct tape dragging along the ground like a tail.

  “Remmy always late,” Buell said. He leaned against the fireplace. I noticed the ropy muscle underneath his homespun shirt. He glared openly at his mother.

  The old woman carefully balanced the stool against the wall to make up for the missing leg. She teetered a bit, glaring back at Buell as if this was his fault, before finally settling down.

  And then there was silence.

  Well, you don’t send Adjudicators to Mrs. Dalton’s School of Manners and Social Conversation for nothing!

  I cleared my throat a few times, then politely asked, “Where is Mr. Rothstein?”

  “Don’t worry, gal,” Buell told me. And then, thank God for my work certifying the World Record for the Most Yiddish Puns Told in a One-Hour Period,3 because I completely understood him when he said, “A falsheh matba’ieh farliert men nit.”4

  The old woman reared up like an angry possum. “Don’t you derogatory my Remmy!” she snapped. “You ungrateful fagala.”5

  “Ku fartzer,”6 he shot back. (I blushed.)

  “Gai kukken afen yam.”7 She waved him away like swatting a fly. Or maybe she was really swatting a fly. There were hundreds in the shack. I’d swallowed at least five since I walked in.

  Buell could barely look me in the eye, but he apologized, “Sorry, Mama ain’t never liked me much.”

  “Can you blame an old woman?” She ignored her son, kindly showing me a row of gums. “You a pretty girl. You married?”

  I deflected that as easily as I did with my own mother. “You must be proud of Remmy for going after the World Record.”

  “Remmy my pride,” the old woman told me. “Boychik over der”—she nodded toward Buell—“not so much.”

  Buell’s fists clenched. A sprinkling of freckles showed under the sweat on his knuckles. The old woman tilted up her chin, daring him to come after her.

  A chill went through me, and I gritted my teeth against the whimper that wanted to come out. Robert, you know I’m the daughter of Indian immigrants. The worst they ever did to me was tell me they were very disappointed I did not become a doctor like my two brothers or even a lawyer like my sister. This exchange between mother and son was shocking, like nothing I’d ever witnessed. And the language! Even during the great Domino Debacle, the worst Jimmy Butler managed to call me was a psycho bitch fuck. Granted, he was only nine years old at the time and hadn’t slept for four days because he was setting up his domino display to try to achieve the record (believe me, to this day I still have nightmares about bump
ing into that table), but the point I am trying to make is that the hatred between the two people in that swamp shack was so thick I could’ve easily certified it as the Thickest Hatred in the World. And you know an Adjudicator never exaggerates about World Records.

  Again, the old woman teetered on the stool as she settled the three legs back onto the floor. Buell flinched as she stood with a sweeping, almost threatening, motion. She went over to the fireplace and placed her hand on a wooden box I hadn’t noticed before. It was quite lovely—cherrywood rubbed into a warm red, and small enough to fit in two hands.

  Buell nervously eyed the box. “Mama, please. We got comp’ny.”

  She patted the box, and I could tell she took a dark delight in its contents. She told me, “Remmy a good boy. He never do know it, though. Always tryin’ for things, never gettin’ ’em. Bless his heart.”

  For just a moment, I felt a shock of panic. Was she telling me that Remmy was in the box? Had he passed away before I could verify his World Record?

  And, I have to admit, there was another, more startling thought: had they killed him?

  I know it’s silly to have these dramatic, dark ideas, but Robert, you must understand that in this kind of setting, one cannot help but conjure up Deliverance-like atrocities. Indeed, for the first time since I landed in Atlanta and drove the interminable hours down to this backwater swamp, I felt the sweat dry on my skin. Dry? Nay, freeze. And then it crystallized to dry ice when next the old woman stabbed her finger into Buell’s chest and said—